He tried again. It was clearer this time, the other frigate much closer, two miles at the most. He shifted the glass with great care, gritting his teeth against the raw pain in his arm and thigh with each steep plunge. The Stars and Stripes were very bright and clear now. And men too, lining the gangway and clinging to the rigging to stare at this ship. He moved the glass again. To gloat, probably. Then he found the barque, graceful for her size, closer but angled away from the frigate's quarter. And he saw the flag. It was flying above another which had been crudely tied into a knot, the mark of submission. The prize.
He saw some of the sailors waving from the other frigate, well aware that telescopes were watching them.
Cristie said, 'Proud as peacocks now, ain't they?'
Bellairs said, 'The wind's easing, sir.' It was a question rather than a report.
Adam nodded, impatient to end it. 'Call all hands. Shake out those reefs, and we shall take her closer to the wind.' He glanced at Cristie. 'Show them how it's done, eh?'
High on his perch in the crosstrees, Midshipman Cousens heard the faint squeal of calls, and guessed what was happening far beneath his dangling legs. Clinging to a stay, the lookout watched him patiently, eager to be alone again. Cousens trained his glass. It felt like a bar of ballast in his wet hands.
He studied the frigate and then wiped his eye, thinking he had missed something. Somehow the picture had changed, which was impossible.
The waving, cheering sailors, soundless and tiny in the lens, were gone, and… he could scarcely believe it… the Stars and Stripes had vanished also.
Even as he watched, the line of ports opened, as one or so it seemed, and he stared with disbelief at the guns which shone in the hard light like black teeth.
He groped for the lookout and punched his arm.
Alarm! Alarm!'
All else was blotted out by the growling roar of a broadside, and one last scream as he fell.
15. The Oldest Trick
'BEAT TO QUARTERS and clear for action!'
For an instant longer there was chaos as the men pouring on deck to obey the last order broke into groups, the constant drills taking charge, even as a few stared with disbelief at the other ships.
Adam cupped his hands. 'Alter course two points! Steer nor'west by north!'
Men were running past to take station at the braces while gun crews ducked around them, looking for familiar faces, driven to a faster pace by the staccato rattle from the drums of two marines by the mainmast truck.
Adam gripped the rail with both hands, watching the other frigates, the open gun ports, the sudden menace of their black muzzles.
It was too late. Already too late. I should have known, guessed.
'Steady she goes! Nor'-west by north, sir!'
All else was drowned by the rolling thunder of a broadside. Perhaps the other captain had sensed that Unrivalled had been about to spread more sail, and maybe thought it was his only chance.
It was like a wild wind, shots screaming through the rigging and punching holes in topsails and jibs. And the telltale quiver of iron smashing into the hull.
He looked again. One i8-pounder had been flung inboard from its port and a man was pinned under it, his arms reaching out, as if he were drowning. His lower limbs did not move. Nor would they.
Two other seamen lay by the foremast, one cut almost in half by a ball, the other trying to drag himself away. To hide.
Galbraith shouted, 'If he'd waited, he'd have dismasted us!'
Adam saw the shattered telescope, broken across one of the guns, and Cousens's body, dislodged from the main-yard as the hands hauled at the braces to fall like a rag doll to the deck.
He felt the grief changing to fury, white-hot, and beyond reason. They died because of me. Not because of the stupid, over-cautious orders, but because of me.
The guns were running out again along the other frigate's side, and he tried to clear his mind. Not quick, but fast enough. There were trained men working those guns: renegades, rebels, whatever he chose to call them was irrelevant. Still on a converging tack, the second vessel still wearing. The frigate mounted 38 guns, so perhaps the barque carried armament of her own. Her master had also expected Unrivalled to change tack, come fully aback perhaps, and leave her stern exposed for just long enough.
'Ready, sir!'
He ignored the faces around him and sought out Varlo at the first division of guns. He was standing motionless, his hanger drawn and across one shoulder as if this were a formal inspection, and one of his boots had left a bloody footprint, from the man pinned under the eighteenpounder.
As you bear! Fire!'
The broadside was well timed, crashing aft along the side, the orange tongues spurting through the dense pall of smoke funnelling inboard through the ports and over the gangway.
The other frigate had the wind-gage but, held over by the same wind, her muzzles high-angled, Unrivalled had the range.
Adam knew the enemy had fired again; cordage, severed blocks and charred strips of canvas fell and scattered across the gun crews who, working like demons with handspikes and rammers, were already responding to the hoarse shouts of command. Unrivalled was alone, and ordered to be so until her mission was completed. If anything vital carried away now, the other vessels would lie off and take their time, until there was no one left alive to prevent a boarding. A slaughter.
He seized Midshipman Deighton's arm and pushed him against the rail, and trained a telescope across his shoulder. The youth was staring at him; he could even feel his breath, his body shaken to another ragged salvo. But his eyes were steady, trying to tell him that he was not afraid.
Adam acknowledged him without speaking and concentrated his gaze on the other frigate. There was a black flag at her peak now, and he recalled with insane clarity the words of the dying renegade captain in that same cabin beneath his feet. In war, we're all mercenaries.
He saw the shot-holes in the sails, raw timbers protruding from a bulwark, a few empty gun ports. He lowered the glass. But it was not enough. Not enough.
He flinched as he felt hands fumbling around his waist, the sudden drag of a sword against his hip. It was Jago, face half shaved, caught by the sudden call to arms.
More shots slammed into the lower hull, each one a body blow. Jago reached out and gripped his arm, unsmiling, and said harshly, 'No matter, sir. I'll finish shavin' when we're done with this scum!'
Adam stared at him, and realised, perhaps for the first time, how close he had been to breaking, failing the ship, and the men like Jago who never questioned why they were here, or who would die next.
'We'll hold this course!' He saw Galbraith cup his hand over his ear to listen as the roar of cannonfire drowned out all else. The gun captains, blinded by smoke, were barely able to see their enemy, and yet with practised fingers they gripped their triggerlines even as each carriage lurched up against the side. Fire! Sponge out.' Load' Run out! Fire! If the pattern was broken, they were finished.
A boatswain's mate dropped to the deck without a sound. Unmarked, his face shocked, as if he couldn't accept the haste of death.
The range was down to less than a mile, with both ships firing, the churning fog of gunsmoke hiding everything but the upper yards and punctured sails of the adversaries.
Galbraith yelled, 'He's badly mauled, sir! One shot to our two, if that!' He was actually grinning, and waving his hat to the quarterdeck gun crews. Adam walked to the centre of the deck, his legs suddenly able to carry him again.
'Then he'll try to board us, Leigh!' He found he had the sword in his hand. Not his own: Jago must have snatched it from somewhere. There must be no more mistakes. Could not. 'All guns double-shotted and with grape. Warn the smashers up forrard to be ready.' Over his shoulder he called, 'Bring her up a point, Mr Cristie-we don't
